


the winding path

by The_Wavesinger



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-09 13:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19477141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Sam can't sleep. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) neither can Steve.





	the winding path

**Author's Note:**

  * For [halfeatenmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfeatenmoon/gifts).



Sam can’t sleep.

It’s his bed. It has the same problem as the bed before it, and the bed before that one as well. The uneven softness startles him, cradles him in its grasp. The hardness of the prison cell bed, of his bunk or roll or ranger-grave in Afghanistan (and he hates that the two blur together in his mind, but he can’t help it) should’ve been something he’s glad to have left behind.

But the parts you leave behind and the parts you take with you aren’t always what you want them to be. And, Sam thinks wryly, groping with his feet for his slippers, he really does know what he’s talking about, if he says (thinks) so himself.

He pads down the dark corridors (Natasha isn’t up, then, she likes the hallway lights blazing bright when she is) of the safehouse onto the porch.

Someone’s already there, a dark silhouette leaning against the railings, half-illuminated by moonlight.

Steve.

Of course it is. Who else could it be?

He shuffles up next to Steve, the sleepy-but-not-ready-to-sleep feeling dragging through the depths of his bones and sending a strange restless energy across his nerves. “Can’t sleep?”

Steve smiles, one of the familiar twists of his mouth. An acknowledgement. “You could say that, yeah.”

T’Challa’s stashed them in the middle of goddamn nowhere, no neighbors for almost a mile out. But the thick forest protecting the house from the view of the roads and nosy locals only rings around them for a few hundred yards. So they’re pretty much staring out at vague, inky-black outlines of what might be trees.

“I want to go running,” Steve says abruptly. A confession he hadn’t intended to make, if the hand running across his face is any indication.

“Yeah.” Sam would like to run himself to exhaustion too, beat the world into submission (maybe less successfully than Steve on both counts, but he wants the space to _try_ ). Maybe then he wouldn’t be this jittery, tired but still tossing and turning. (He’s tried, before, but he’s not going to think about that part of his life now, in this way.)

“You want to train, at least? Try that put-down move Natasha was showing us the other day?”

Training almost always ends with Sam flat on his back, Steve hovering above him. Unless Sam’s using his wings, which Steve calls ‘cheating’ but Sam considers taking advantage of gifts given to him, and their positions are reversed. Either way, Sam loves it. But not right now. “Couldn’t keep up with you right now, Cap. Couldn’t keep up with a sack of potatoes.”

Steve laughs. It’s a little more strained these days, a little more tense, but it’s still a sound Sam will never get tired of. “Come on, potato sack, show me what you’ve got. I’ll even let you use the wings—it’s three in the morning, no-one will notice.”

“My bones will notice,” Sam grumbles. But he’s ready to cave. He’ll be black and blue tomorrow, that’s for sure, but it’s worth it to see Steve smile again, and to get a good night’s rest.

“You’re whining, old man,” Steve teases gently.

“Watch who you’re calling old, Popsicle Man.” Sam nudges his shoulder against Sam’s. Easy, companionable.

Steve inclines his head, acknowledging the hit. From this angle, his face is bathed with moonlight, pale blue eyes glittering sharply. Steve’s not Captain America here, no shield or suit. He’s _Sam’s_ Steve, his—whatever he is.

“I should go back to bed.” They’ve got a long day ahead of them tomorrow. Unlike certain supersoldiers he could name, Sam isn’t fueled purely by determination and righteousness. He needs normal people things like sleep and food to function. He stifles a yawn behind his hand, turns to go. He should at least _try_ to catch some rest, even though the jitters are back and he’s alert and awake even through his tiredness.

“Wait. Sam.” Steve catches Sam’s hand, his grip tight. If Steve was anyone else, Sam would call it desperate. He looks—tired, exhausted, and all the things Sam is and is trying not to think about.

He also looks kissable.

So Sam kisses him.

He’s still not sure what part of Steve’s companionship is flirting. He’s not even sure that Steve is flirting at all. But he’s going to seize the goddamn moment because there’s nothing else to do, and if Steve pushes him off he’ll take his punches with as much grace as he can.

Except Steve isn’t pushing him off. After a single moment of frozen stillness, he pushes back, deepens the kiss. Pushes his tongue against Sam’s lips, his hand wandering across Sam’s back and coming to rest on the skin between his shirt and sweatpants.

Steve Rogers is a _brilliant_ kisser.

Sam, however, is unfortunately not a supersoldier, and they have to break apart so that Sam can draw in deep, shuddering breaths. Steve’s lips are kiss-bitten and swollen, his cheeks flushed a red visible even in the dim light. “Hey,” he says softly, tracing the line of Sam’s cheekbone with a single trembling finger.

I just kissed this man, Sam thinks, and smiles back.


End file.
